


the first last word (of the new year)

by Siriusstuff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (more like power bottom), Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bottom Derek, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, New Year's Eve, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5607106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little Sterek action on New Years Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the first last word (of the new year)

“Stiles… Stiles, you don’t want to see the ball drop?”

Why Derek wasn’t gettin’ all up in that Stilesness, insisting on watching the action in Times Square as midnight approached instead, Stiles didn’t know.

Didn’t matter though, because Stiles _was_ gettin’ all up in that Derekness.

Seated snugly cross-wise on Derek’s lap, his hand under Derek’s Henley, his nose, lips, tongue-tip, playing across the sensitive skin of Derek’s neck, Stiles knew _somebody’s_ resolve was crumbling.

Derek squirmed at the tickling, made weird little noises in his throat, but then, “Stiles, you don’t want to see the ball drop?” he asked, eyes on the television.

“Only balls I wanna see are yours,” Stiles answered. He made his point, removing his hand from the pectoral it squeezed and sliding it into Derek’s crotch, nestling his balls best he could through Derek’s jeans.

“And they’re _not_ droppin’. I got ‘em safe and sound.” He gently kneaded.

Derek groaned through closed lips; it sounded like a sexy whine.

Stepping up his game, Stiles worked his long middle finger farther under, to find Derek’s hole beneath a layer of clothing (Stiles always encouraged Derek’s going commando.) Stiles homed in on his goal and started tapping against the fabric covering it.

Derek’s back arched a little. Stiles knew all resistance was about to come crashing down. He sniggered in triumph—a bit too soon.

“Just ten seconds, Stiles,” Derek pleaded. “Nine, eight…”

Stiles huffed melodramatically. He’d make Derek pay for being such a traditionalist geek—even though “punishing” him with intense orgasms was probably not so effective as far as being a penalty.

Stiles turned his head to the TV at two seconds to midnight and watched the stupid goddamn ball drop, finally.

“Ooh, ahh,” he snarked. “Happy new year!”

Suddenly Derek had Stile’s head turned so as to kiss him, with ardent, unexpected enthusiasm.

When they parted, “Happy New Year,” he whispered, pleased and genuine.

Stiles pulled away a little more. “What? No champagne? No confetti?”

With no reply, Derek maneuvered Stiles off his lap. Both standing, Derek lay another mouthy kiss on him then abruptly hoisted Stiles head first over his shoulder and stalked to their bedroom.

After registering his surprise with suitably outraged squawks, Stiles found Derek’s magnificent backside not only in view but in reach too.

“Mmmm,” he hummed, grabbing hold of it with both hands. “My first resolution of the new year is I’m fucking you bow-legged,” he announced, jostled by Derek’s hurried pace.

“Holding you to that,” Derek swore, pitching Stiles across their bed. In a matter of seconds he’d stripped off his shirt and jeans and then helped Stiles tear off his clothes.

He rustled around in the bed table drawer.

“Where was this eagerness bef—?” Another in a never-ending stream of snide remarks got cut off as Derek slathered up Stiles’s dick liberally with lube.

Stiles gasped as Derek determinedly seated himself on its rigidness. It was one more great—really, _really_ great—perk of having a werewolf boyfriend: the way Derek could operate that particular opening into his body. Stiles called it Derek’s butt-hole yoga.

Tongue lolling from his mouth, eyes squinted, as Stiles rolled his head back and forth he noticed the digits on the clock radio: 12:07.

His delivery lacked its usual flair—due to his being ridden like a wild bronco—but not even on the way to an orgasm could Stiles resist a lousy joke: “We’re really startin’ th’new year with a—”

Derek pressed his free hand, the one not stripping his dick with finessed if frantic strokes, over Stiles’s mouth, because not even on the way to an orgasm was Derek going to tolerate a lousy joke— _if_ he could stop one.

There was still lube on Derek’s hand and Stiles started spluttering against the sticky palm, spitting grossed-out noises between sexual groans when Derek pulled it away.

Following an almost surprised cry, seconds later Derek was shooting his always abundant seed over Stiles’s front. Stiles felt some drops of it even hit his throat, but Derek’s supernatural asshole was still at work, wringing Stiles climax from him, so the latter’s compulsion to comment was momentarily stalled.

A quickie round one merely lit the fuse to round two, much sooner than later (Stiles planned on three.) But even Derek needed a breather.

Still dick-skewered, Derek leaned forward till he lay against Stiles chest. Stiles’s near automatic response to that position was to stroke his fingers soothingly through Derek’s hair. But instead of the usual endearments of afterglow, just to get even for the lube still smeared on his lips and chin from when Derek had stifled his lousy joke, Stiles put his mouth near Derek’s ear. Sighing he whispered, in conclusion,

“— _Bang_.”

 


End file.
